


home

by keiikis



Series: no place like home [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, and they were ROOMMATES, man it's just fluff, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27766231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keiikis/pseuds/keiikis
Summary: snapshots of tommy and tubbo's lives after they move in together
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo/TommyInnit
Series: no place like home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038358
Comments: 24
Kudos: 324





	home

tommy always goes to bed at ten thirty pm, and wakes up at seven am on the dot. he checks his email while making coffee at seven fifteen, then showers and dresses for the day by seven forty-five. sometimes he has early meetings with his manager or one of his editors, sometimes it’s with a merch company representative, or his twitch partner supervisor. sometimes he just responds to more emails, filtering through the spam and mindlessly scrolling down the pages in his business inbox.

(sometimes, he makes breakfast for two and leaves the second plate wrapped in plastic, on the left side of the kitchen table with the wonky leg that tubbo refuses to fix because it somehow gives the table “character”. what the fuck does that even mean?)

tommy has a schedule planned out for every single day, without fail. even his holidays are planned because being unprepared is for pussies. he opens the calendar app on his computer and highlights important times and dates in bright red, adding extra exclamation points and bolding them for emphasis. tommy has a habit of cracking his knuckles before starting the dreaded process of editing footage for vidoes. don’t get him wrong, he genuinely enjoys filming and editing, it’s just… well… editing isn’t the most fun part of the job sometimes, and he sends the raw footage to archie and larry more often than he’d like to admit. he’s getting better at communicating the cuts he wants to make though, and watching the progression of quality in his main channel videos does wonders for his ego.

(sometimes he goes back and binges his old videos and when he’s feeling real nostalgic, his vods. he gravitates towards the ones with tubbo when he’s in one of those dumb nostsalgic moods. building a house with tubbo outside of manberg, pranking fundy’s base with granite, giving terrible love advice while mining, cracking dumb john lennon jokes, digging out the tunnels beneath l’manberg and connecting their houses, stealing gold from people’s beacons, the list goes on and on. he hates how he can clearly remember every single bit, every single stupid plan from any random stream with tubbo.)

tommy doesn’t let his head get too big though, there’s always something he catches after the final upload, a joke that didn’t quite land the way he wanted it to, or a cut that leaves out something he wanted to keep in. no matter how well he understands the algorithm or his audience, he can’t help but strive for more, for better, for perfection.

(sometimes when he catches an especially notable mistake or his newest video isn’t doing as well as he’d hoped it would, tubbo has to pry his headset away from him and drag him outside on a walk. the fresh seaside air and the sounds of gulls and noisy car horns mingling together with the crash of the waves on the marina docks has a way of calming him down. but deep down inside he knows that when the internet overwhelms him with statistics and feedback and noise, it’s tubbo’s hand, solid, warm, and familiar, that anchors him to the real world.)

tommy doesn’t like to cook, and he’s banned from the kitchen for “numerous atrocious and unforgivable crimes against cooking” so he’s okay with ordering in sometimes. most days though, he sorts through the fridge for last night's leftovers—that he wasn’t allowed to help cook—and heats them up in the shiny black microwave that sits above their sleek kitchen shelves. tommy thinks having a state-of-the-art kitchen is stupid when their fucking table can’t even stand up without tipping ever so slightly, but keeps his mouth shut throughout the apartment hunting process because he knows that he does NOT have the final say. he’s not the one in charge of the weekly cooking streams, so that fucking mess isn’t his responsibility.

(sometimes he joins the cooking streams just to smear a finger dipped in chocolate sauce onto tubbo’s pouting face, or steals a bite from the casserole before it’s ready for the camera. tubbo always smacks him with the nearest kitchen utensil and shoos him off. other times, tubbo invites him to feature on streams with easier prep and minimal cooking time. he’s still fucking embarassed when tubbo has to stand behind him and hold his hands to show him how to cut an onion the right way though. tubbo makes fun of him for not being able to cut an onion when two years ago he thought you had to fucking peel mushrooms before eating them. what a fucking dumbass.)

tommy isn’t used to using the fancy looking dishwasher after meals, but tubbo insists that it saves water as opposed to washing plates by hand. tommy doesn’t understand the logic but the kitchen isn’t his territory, so he does as he’s told. he still takes satisfaction in placing all the dishes and silverware back into the correct spots though. he knows his dumb flatmate has the habit of leaving clean kitchenware out in the open with the excuse that “it’s clean, so why do i have to put it back? i’m just gonna use it next meal and i can’t reach the cabinet with the nice cups in it without parkouring”.

(sometimes his breath catches in his throat when he sees tubbo do something dumb like stack three chairs on top of each other and carry a broom just to try and pry open the upper kitchen cabinents. the light from their wall length windows in the living room illuminates tubbo’s lithe figure as he sticks his tongue out in concentration, carefully hooking the broom through the cabinet handle and opening the damn cabinet. tubbo yelps when the chair, or rather, chairs, under him topple due to the imbalance in weight, and tommy’s right there to catch him before he even knows what’s going on. they invest in some nice looking kitchen stools after that.)

tommy thinks his favorite thing about the apartment is the view from the fifth floor. it’s not so close to the ground that he has to see pedestrians and hear the rumble of car engines, but it’s also not so high up that he feels detached from the city when he opens the sliding glass door out to the balcony. every time he slides the door open, he narrowly avoids knocking over the bonsai trees that tubbo has placed precariously close to the entrance. no matter how many times tommy moves the stupid trees, tubbo insists that they “absorb the maximum sunlight” in that position, a fact that tommy highly doubts is true. tommy watches tubbo from the living room as he repots and prunes the stupid things, humming happily to himself. apparently the trees have names but tommy can’t be arsed to remember them.

(sometimes they both go out on the balcony while the sea breeze ruffles tubbo’s already fluffy hair. tommy gets the sudden urge to run his fingers through brown locks, soft and slightly damp from the shower. tubbo looks at him with a big dumb smile on his face and tommy squishes the urge down, not in the mood for any sentimental shit. the other boy scoots closer to him on the wicker bench and adjusts his side of the earbuds. they’re listening to one of tubbo’s playlists today, zelda and chill, and watching the sun slowly dip beneath the water. okay fine, maybe this is some sentimental shit but tommy likes their little ritual of sorts, sparked by tubbo jokingly suggesting that they recreate “the bench” in real life. they watch as the last rays of sunlight paint the water orange, then as the streetlamps flicker on and the city morphs into a different landscape entirely.)

-

tubbo wakes up most mornings around ten or eleven am. he sleeps when he wants to, which usually means he’s up until the early hours of the morning talking to people in different time zones. he still misses deadlines, makes embarrassing spelling mistakes in emails, and has to paste long paragraphs into the dyslexic font generator. he forgets to eat breakfast sometimes, and other times it’s because he’s woken up too late. he procrastinates editing by either cooking or tending to rupert and eliza, his two precious bonsai trees. tubbo hates planning out his day, much less vacations or break time: the only semblance of a schedule that he maintains is cooking. he laughs at tommy’s elementary cooking skills and picks the egg shells out of the bowl that tommy’s attempted to crack them in. the awfully designed dream smp apron hangs from a lower drawer handle, worn with use and stained. tubbo still wears that apron for cooking streams sometimes even though tommy hates it with a burning passion.

(sometimes, tubbo pretends not to notice the way his heart thrums at hummingbird speed when tommy places a casual hand on his back, the way he subconsciously leans towards tommy when they sit on their bench, the way their hands lightly brush up against each other on seaside walks. he pretends not to notice the way tommy looks at him with poorly-concealed adoration when he’s sitting at their small kitchen table waiting for tubbo to carry the dishes over. he pretends that when he and tommy end up falling asleep next to each other on the couch after a movie marathon, it doesn’t feel like coming home, it doesn’t feel like tommy’s arms fit perfectly around him, it doesn’t feel like the head on his shoulder snoring softly doesn’t make his heart want to combust and put a nuclear reactor to shame.)

tubbo doesn’t remember falling in love with tommy. the love he feels isn’t some quarantine crush, isn’t a passing infatuation. no, the soul crushing, terrifying, all-consuming love he feels for tommy is felt with every fiber of his being. tommy’s obnoxious laugh, lack of fashion sense, awful posture. everything. the way he’s caring and mature off-screen, yet boisterous and confident when he’s the center of attention. tubbo doesn’t remember falling in love with tommy but the fact of the matter is that he’s still falling, with every day that they spend together in the apartment that he’s learnt to call home.

sometimes, tubbo looks back on their apartment days while twisting the engagement ring around his finger. he fiddles with the solid gold band and thinks of crooked tables, messy kitchens, crowded balconies. he thinks of first kisses and awkward confessions, he thinks of the first time he’s finally able to clasp his hand in tommy’s and the first time he’s able to snuggle up against him without feeling guilty. tubbo isn’t one to dwell on the past but they’ve long since moved out of the apartment in brighton and he misses it sometimes. but the feeling of home doesn’t change. no, he thinks, sticking his cold feet against tommy’s warmer legs, avoiding tommy’s predictable kick to the shins as he tugs their blanket down in defense. his home hasn’t changed.

**Author's Note:**

> i brainrot so much about these two living together in the future.... 
> 
> song inspo: butterflies by samsa, tubbo has banger music taste


End file.
